Love in the Time of Scandal Read Online Free PDF Page B

and money. If one was fortunate, it also provided contented companionship, which he supposed led to happiness. On the other hand, if he admitted the possibility of unhappiness, it would hand Penelope a weapon to skewer him, and he had already seen how quickly she would do it.
    “I don’t want to make her unhappy,” he said.
    “Yet what you love about her is her tendency to think too well of people—including, perhaps, gentlemen who call on her. A man truly in love would surely be able to declare it openly, with no need for prevarication. One doesn’t even need to ask Sebastian if he loves my sister; it’s written on his face when he looks at her—something he does all the time.” She made a dismissive motion with one hand as Benedict’s expression hardened into stone. “I haven’t seen you glance once toward Miss Lockwood. Instead you’ve been watching me like a cat watches a mouse, as if you’d like nothing more than a chance to wring my neck.”
    “A cat,” he bit out, “does not wring a mouse’s neck. He eats the mouse. Do you seriously convict me of not caring for Miss Lockwood because I’m not consumed with jealousy over her every move? Quite aside from the fact that I have been paying attention to you, my partner in the quadrille, what sort of marriage would it be if I never allowed my wife to dance with another man or do anything at all out of my sight? You advocate something more like possession than marriage.” He didn’t care that he had all but admitted he was planning to propose to Frances Lockwood. Something about Penelope Weston made his blood run hot and reckless.
    “You needn’t be consumed with jealousy,” she scoffed. “But consumed with passion for her . . . That is something every woman wants from the man she marries.”
    He almost lost his temper. Every woman? Not even half, by his accounting. Just in this ballroom alone, Benedict could see more than a dozen women who had married for money, for rank, for power. If they wanted passion, they must have found it outside their marital beds, because he knew a great many married couples in London who could hardly stand the sight of each other.
    “Such charming idealism,” he said in a stony voice. “What a romantic haven you must inhabit. Either that, or you’re too naïve to understand marriage among the upper classes.”
    Her eyes widened. “It is not idealism!”
    He gave her a cynical look. “Then you’ve not seen enough ton marriages.”
    “Perhaps not,” she retorted. “Perhaps I’ve seen too many happy marriages, like my sister’s.” She gave him a scathing look up and down. “Perhaps that’s the difference between us, Lord Atherton. I believe a man should love the woman he marries, and she should love him. I don’t believe it’s enough to simply ‘get on well together’ and enjoy each other’s company.”
    The edges of his vision burned red. Even if he hadn’t remembered speaking those words, the scornful lilt Penelope gave them would have reminded him of the occasion. He hadn’t been desperately in love with Abigail Weston when he proposed to her, but neither had he lied and claimed he was. He’d been honest with her, and now Penelope was flinging it in his face as if it were some sordid insult. Someday, someone would give her a well-deserved comeuppance, and he hoped he was there to see it.
    “I expect it’s but one of many differences between us.” He bowed. “Good evening, Miss Weston.” He walked away, and felt her gaze boring into his back with every step he took.
    His fellow Guardsmen had congregated at the far end of the room, closer to the card room and the wine punch. Sick of female companionship for the moment, he rejoined them, still thinking how he could have charmed his way back into Penelope Weston’s good graces—assuming she had any, which he was beginning to doubt. Those flashes of affinity between them must have been figments of his imagination.
    “What were you up to?”
    He